


Captivity

by Alexei2020



Series: The lives of Bucky and Peter [3]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Brainwashed Peter Parker, Hydra Peter Parker, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexei2020/pseuds/Alexei2020
Summary: Two steps forward. Ten steps left. Fifteen right. Stop. A single knock. A creaking metal door. Five steps forward. Light.It's routine by now. He doesn't flinch when they rip off his shirt. When they place him on the cold metal table. When they strap him down just a little too tight. He doesn't make a sound when they stuff the cloth in his mouth to bite into. He doesn't scream when they cut open his forearm. Or poke around to check his reflexes. Study the sacks that makes his webs.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker
Series: The lives of Bucky and Peter [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733041
Comments: 2
Kudos: 113





	Captivity

Day four hundred and thirty seven. He hasn't seen anything other than the closet of a room he's held in and the lab he's being experimented on in. The only way he can tell the days apart is the half loaf he gets through a hatch in the door. He's enhanced hearing picks up every step outside. He knows which guard is standing there by the sound of the boots hitting the concrete floor alone. 

  
They never speak to him. They never look at him when the door opens for transport to the lab. And he doesn't look at them either. He tried the first days. But the collar around his neck taught him the consequences of looking anywhere but down when the sharp light from the halls flooded his cell. 

  
Most of the time he doesn't know up from down. The experiments has made his abilities stronger, and the fine hairs in his palms and feet are now covering his entire body. Which means it doesn't matter which of the six surfaces surrounding him he sits on. Or curls up against. 

  
His webbing is stronger too. It lasts longer and he can produce different types depending on what he's using it for. Not that he's got alot of testing done. He built a nest a few months back. The cell was so cold, he was freezing, and losing his mind. The primal instincts took over and before anyone could really do anything he was hibernating in the dark corner. He paid for that when he woke up a week later. 

  
And that's how the venom in his fangs - hidden behind his teeth - turned deadly. It was dangerous enough before. A drop could paralyze a grown man for a few hours. Now it leads to a painful, agonizing death just by penetrating the skin. 

  
___

  
When the door opens, and the light forces its way into the small room, the first thing he does is search the opening for where the boots are located so he can place himself the right way up. Gaze never flickering towards anything else. He's on the wall this time, and in a second he stands in the middle of the square, head tilted as far down as he can with the thick collar around his neck. 

  
He knows what's coming. He knows the pain he's about to get. And he doesn't need to make it worse. He stands still. Hands to his side, feet planted on the floor. He suppresses a sigh of relief when he gets the bag over his head, giving his neglected eyes some peace. 

  
Two steps forward. Ten steps left. Fifteen right. Stop. A single knock. A creaking metal door. Five steps forward. Light. 

  
It's routine by now. He doesn't flinch when they rip off his shirt. When they place him on the cold metal table. When they strap him down just a little too tight. He doesn't make a sound when they stuff the cloth in his mouth to bite into. He doesn't scream when they cut open his forearm. Or poke around to check his reflexes. Study the sacks that makes his webs. 

  
He screams when they places the helmet on his head. When electricity shoots through his brain. He feels the molecules shaking and tearing themselves apart. He feels his enhanced healing shifting focus from the open cut on his arm to the burning in his head. He screams until his lungs give out. Until it feels like his eyes will pop out of their sockets. The sound disappears before the air runs out, and when it does, so does the room around him. The scientists in white lab coats are silent. The boots doesn't shift on the floor. His scratching on the metal table doesn't make a sound anymore. But then again. He can't really feel his fingers either. He's numb. Nothing works. 

_Just give up_.

He doesn't give up. He doesn't know why. He knows there's no getting out. No one's coming for him. He's never gonna spend an evening with James and Steve again. Laugh together with them at the bar. He's never gonna swing around the city again. He's never gonna feel his lovers strong arms around him at night. Keeping him safe. Grounded. He's alone. And he has nothing to fight for. Why can't his body _just give up?_

  
When he wakes up he's back in his cell. The cut on his arm is just a faint bump on the skin. He crawls to the first corner he can find in the dark and surrounds himself in a cocoon. At least it can keep him a little warmer the next hours. 

  
___

  
Its day seven hundred and eleven. He fights now. They train him in all kinds of combat skills. They make him shoot targets with different kinds of guns. They make him fight other guards. But never the same guard twice. He's not supposed to let them get back up. 

  
They teach him languages. Every wrong word is a cut with a knife. He's fluent in English, Russian, Latin, Italian, German and mandarin now. He suspects some of the needles he gets is helping somehow. He has always been smart, but now he figures the meaning just by hearing it once. 

  
They have him study psychology. Why, he has no idea. But he finds it interesting how the human mind works, and he tests his knowledge on whoever unfortunate soul ends up on his fighting path. 

  
They keep him up to date with every new piece of technological piece out there. Everything from radios to bombs and vehicles. He likes those too. The way the thin wires work together with pieces of metal and how they all tell each other what to do when. 

  
They call him the spider. He has got a new cell. A bigger one. He even has ha bed now. Not that he uses it, as he prefers the hard concrete or a cocoon when it's too cold.

  
He even gets real meals. Some kind of broth with potatoes and carrots, along with the bread. He doesn't know exactly why, but he's not about to ask. He's grateful for what they give him. And he savours it all, enjoying the studies and meals, keeping every thought about experiments and brain burning at arms length until he smells the familiar chemicals flooding his nose as he steps closer to the metal door.

  
He wakes up in his room again. There's a tiny strip of light coming from the hatch in the door for the food, but there's some folded fabric lying there. The Spider cocks his head, mind racing. What is this? Slowly he inches towards it, gently running a finger over the material. It's textured, and feels like a mix of cotton and metal armour. It smells like oil and soap. It's all black, and as he unfolds it and holds it up, he sees the web details across the chest and the spider emblem across the back. Probably not visible for normal human eyes, which makes the spider even more grateful. There's a muzzle and a holster for his gun beside it. As he studies the clothing he finds several hiding spots for knives too. 

  
As he undresses himself and neatly folds the torn sweat suit he's worn for as long as he can remember, he takes another look at the muzzle. It looks familiar somehow. But he can't quite place it. It's beautiful craftsmanship, but it looks used, and a little old, maybe? Not like the suit, which both looks and smells completely new. 

  
He peels on the skin tight suit, pleasantly surprised by the amount of padding in it, yet it moves with his body like he isn't wearing anything at all. He straps the holster around his thigh, wiggling his leg a little to make sure it sticks in place. 

  
He picks up the face piece again. Letting his fingertips get familiar with the material, the small bumps and every uneven texture coating it. It feels hand made. He taps it a couple times with his knuckle, listening to the clunky sound it makes. Some kind of metal. With leather on the outside? There's small needles around the inside, maybe to make sure he doesn't talk while wearing it? There's tiny holes around the whole thing, to make sure he can breathe, perhaps? But as he studies the mask with his eyes, hands and nose, he just can't shake the feeling that he's seen this before somewhere. But he can't for the life of him remember where from.

  
The suit's thin material is perfect. The tiny hairs covering his body pierces it without problem, making it easy to crawl up in a corner to get some sleep. They must want him for something important if they gift him with such beautiful and useful things. 

  
And they do. It's a mission. Two guards stand in the light, no bag this time. They lead him to an office of sorts, where he is greeted by a stern man in a black suit, white shirt and a tie. He has a pin clipped on his breast pocket. A symbol he has grown to know all to well by now. The red octopus stands out on all the guards and he has one just like it on his usual sweat shirt. 

  
They want him to travel to a village in Siberia. There's a group of bad people there, they say. They train kids to become evil soldiers. And they need to be taken down. All of them. No witnesses. No survivors. 

  
He's taken to a weaponry, and is gifted with all the knives and guns he's able to carry. He makes good use of all the hiding spots in his new form fitting suit, and stuffs it with knives of all different sizes. He picks one gun. His favourite one during training. And then he's guided off to a garage. A motorcycle is waiting for him, a beautiful muscular beast. Shiny and black. He runs his fingers across the leather seat. What did he do to deserve this?

  
He nods gratefully to the guards standing behind him. He doesn't say anything, and his eyes are trained to not show any emotion anymore. Emotions are a weakness. You get punished for those. And even though he's not wearing the collar right now, he knows they have unlimited ways to torture him if he as much as thinks of anything other than what they've told him to think.

  
It's easier like this, anyway. You follow orders, don't talk unless asked a question, use simple body language to communicate otherwise. Whatever else pops up in his head is showed so far back he forgets what it was after a few seconds. 

  
It's a long trip. He has absolutely no idea where he is at the moment, but there's a gps already plotted in with his destination. It feels amazing to have the wind blow in his hair. The smell of grass, leaves, gas and rubber against the asphalt. The view of the sun peeking up behind the snowy mountains in the horizon. He doesn't remember ever being outside like this, but he's gonna savour it for everything it's worth. Who knows how long until they need him for anything else.


End file.
